


After the Funeral

by writergal85



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergal85/pseuds/writergal85
Summary: A one-shot of Shelagh and Patrick after Alec's funeral in Series 3
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	After the Funeral

She couldn't forget Jenny's face.

They'd returned from Alec's funeral service hours ago, and in the bustle of making dinner, doing the washing up and getting Timothy to tidy his room, Shelagh had put the gray sadness of the day out of her mind.

But now, as she readied for bed, that picture of grief came flooding back. She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror over the sink and remembered how pale and tired Jenny had looked, propped up between Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan.

She didn't know exactly how close Jenny and Alec had been, if there had been an understanding between them or any plans for an engagement. She knew Nurse Lee—Jenny—was very dedicated to her work, while Alec, the few times she'd met him, seemed dedicated to Jenny. She'd watched his eyes follow the young nurse whenever she was in the room, like she was the sun of his world.

Patrick looked at her like that.

That's what was really bothering her. Shelagh had watched grieving widows or lovers at funerals before, but this was the first she'd attended since she married. It was the first time she'd ever seen a weeping woman in a black dress and realized that would be her one day. Not for a long time yet, she hoped, but when, in the midst of the choir's hymn, the thought had struck her, she'd gasped, suddenly breathless.

Then she'd spotted Patrick across the church, seen him gazing back at her, full of love and confidence, and found her voice again. When the hymn finished, and she'd returned to the pew, she quietly slipped her hand into his and sent up a prayer of thanks for all she had been given.

She turned off the light in the bath and padded down the hall to their bedroom. Patrick was already there, and she stood in the open doorway for a moment, watching him whistle to himself as he undressed and pulled on his pajama trousers. A year ago, she would have never dared imagine a life with him, and now she couldn't think of one without him.

Of the two of them, Patrick was the more openly affectionate—always kissing her, reaching to hold her, telling her how beautiful she was, how wonderful, how much he adored her. The attention she gave him in return was quieter, composed mostly of small, private actions—wearing a dress she knew he liked, brushing his hand with hers when they passed files back and forth at the surgery, sharing a secret smile with him across the crowded clinic, a promise of things to come when they got home. But she was getting gradually bolder in showing her love for him.

He smiled as he caught her reflection in the vanity mirror and started only slightly when she came closer, slipped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against the soft cotton of his vest. His arms came around her immediately, pulling her closer.

"You were magnificent today." She heard and felt his voice rumble in her ear and the feeling gave her even greater comfort. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his chest, right above his heart, and smiled up at him.

"And thank you — and Timothy — for your help. Hopefully, the next time the choir sings it will be for a happier occasion." She wanted to tell him how much it meant to her to have him beside her, not just at the funeral, but always—however long as always was. But the words stuck in her throat and she bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed.

His dark eyes softened in concern. "What is it?"

She pulled away slightly, one hand playing with a loose thread on his vest, not wanting to let him go, but needing space to say what she needed to say.

"Today, at the funeral, I thought how—how glad I was that I had you there. Not just there, but here, with me. That we have each other and Timothy and everything." She looked at his face again, his brow furrowed in confusion, and felt a wave of affection for her husband so strong it brought tears to her eyes. She smiled. "I love you, so much."

His face broke into a grin. "I love you, too."

She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him, one hand curving around his neck and into his hair, the other resting on his chest, where she could feel the reassuring beat of his heart under her palm. His hands drifted down her back and slipped underneath her open dressing gown, bunching the thin fabric of her summer nightgown and leaving a trail of warmth over her stomach and hips. They kissed for a long, languid moment, until she was so breathless from want she had to pull away.

She took off her glasses, shed her dressing gown and then took his hand again. "Come here," she said, drawing him toward their bed.

He obliged, and they both lay on their sides, face to face and close together, one of his arms draped around her waist, one of her hands stroking his cheek. She moved closer for another kiss, this one deeper and more frantic. With each press of her lips, with every stroke of his hands, she wanted him nearer; she wanted to draw him into her and never let go.

"I love you—I want—to show you," she whispered between kisses. "I want you know—so you never, ever forget."

"Impossible," he murmured, trailing kisses down her neck. "Could you ever forget me?"

"No. Tried once, but someone kept sending me letters," she said, giggling.

She felt him grin against her skin. "Persistent fellow, that doctor."

"Mmm, very persistent," she murmured, drawing his face back to hers for another kiss. "Almost as persistent as his wife."


End file.
